


Was Hael

by gardnerhill



Series: Egg Hunt [5]
Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Story: The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:00:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We’ll take a cup of kindness no matter where we are or who we are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Was Hael

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the December 11, 2015 LJ Comm Watson's Woes Wadvent open prompt “Christmas Cheer.” The Great Mouse Detective vignette is an independent follow-up to my story [The Cage](http://archiveofourown.org/works/489367) in my Egg Hunt series.

The woodcock Mrs. Hudson had prepared for Holmes’ dinner sufficed for two hungry men who’d prevented a great injustice; our meal was seasoned with the righteous knowledge that an innocent man would dine that night with his family instead of with a gaoler, and that a weak and wicked man had been shown a dram of Christmas charity that reflected better on his benefactor than on his own character.

The crowning glory was the bowl of punch kept simmering on the hob while we had spent the day on a very literal goose chase. The heady, delicious odour of ale, spices, orange peel, and baked crab-apples cheered us even before Holmes ladled the smoking wassail into our cups.

Two such old and dear friends needed no words to make our Christmas toast. We met each other’s eyes, smiled, and did full justice to Mrs. Hudson’s concoction.

***

“Another gift from Timothy Wainwright’s parents, Dawson,” Basil said with a smile, turning away from the post-mouse at the door bearing a hamper that clinked with the unmistakeable sound of wine bottles.

I buried my face in my paws and groaned. “I’m beginning to regret saving that child, Basil. I’ve had quite enough holiday cheer for a while.” I do love the food and drink that flows at this festive time of year – sadly, often to excess.

“If you will insist on being heroic, my dear fellow, you must suffer the bad with the good. Ah, excellent!” My friend pulled one vintage out of the hamper and examined the label. “Very wise folk, the Wainwrights. Several of these reds are simple table wines that will be capital when they are mulled. A small cup will also settle our stomachs after Mrs. Judson’s splendid cheese-onion pie and plum-pudding.”

I straightened up a little at that, a thread of cheer at the thought. “I’m sure a gill of that concoction will settle both our stomachs. You’re not accustomed to eating that much either, my boy.”

Basil was already headed to the kitchen to find a saucepan and the appropriate spices. We were both content to let our housekeeper do our cooking, but mulled wine was within our own abilities.

A loud pounding on the door startled both of us.

I sat up, stifling a groan at my full stomach. Basil set down the hamper with a clink. The light in his eyes was familiar to me by now.

I waddled to the door and opened it. A tall grey mouse pushed through with a swirl of cold air, breath smoking and eyes wide with panic. “The pearl! The blue pearl!” he gasped, and collapsed on our hearth-rug.

After that first shock, Basil and I turned and exchanged a grin. A case, on this most festive of days? We couldn’t ask for a better gift. “Crack open the bottle, Basil, this poor chap needs it more than we do,” I said, and helped the swooning fellow to his feet. “Come, sir, tell us everything.”

***

“…it was that misplaced bottle of vodka that caught my attention. Why was it on the bottom shelf?” Joan gestured and waved her arms, enthusiasm in every move. “That’s not how most bars treat a bottle of Gray Goose, it’s kept on the top shelf!”

Sherlock poured hot water into the tea pot, back turned to hide his proud grin at his partner’s triumph in tracking down the jewelry fencers; he didn’t want her to interpret his reaction as patronisation.

“…so Ryder’s in custody, they’ve set Horner free so she’ll celebrate with her kids after all, and Detective Bell’s carbuncle is getting better. It’s a Christmas miracle.” Joan held out her palm.

Sherlock obligingly smacked it with his own free hand as he set down the teapot in front of the cartons of Ethiopian takeaway and the two red-paper crackers at their places. “Well done, Watson. This means we can have our own supper in peace.”

“So how’s your own bloodwork coming along?”

Sherlock sat down and took up the pot. “I’ve narrowed it down to South American rodents. I’ve emailed my contact at the Bronx Zoo for information on capybaras and Dr. Asheer should get me results tomorrow. It IS a treat to work in a city where December 25 is just another day for a good portion of the population, it’s much more efficient.”

Joan Watson smiled at her partner and took up her teacup. “Agreed. I’ll be with my family for New Year – Oren’s despaired of teaching me how to make proper dumplings, but he keeps trying; I was always too busy studying to help him and Mom in the kitchen. But we’ll share a bowl of noodles before I leave you alone in mid-February. Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tapped her teacup with his own. “Feliz Navidad, Watson.”


End file.
